The Good Farmer
Once upon a time there was a good farmer. A great farmer, really. Such a great farmer that he knew the importance of setting a goal for himself, and of having pride in craftsmanship.
So, one winter, it struck him. "I'm in the prime of my life. I know as much about farming as I ever will, and I'm as physically fit as I ever expect to be. My next crop should be my masterpiece!"
He spent the rest of the winter planning for this goal. He took soil samples from twelve different locations in his fields, and sent them off for analysis. He looked at the National Weather Service's predictions for rainfall in the spring. He reviewed the latest agricultural information on topics ranging from proper planting depths to the interplay of rainfall amounts and fertilizer concentrations.
When the soil analysis results arrived, he selected an expensive imported seed perfectly matched to the soil conditions and the predicted rainfall. It took three weeks for the seeds to arrive, but he spent that time cultivating the soil repeatedly, adding a mix of fertilizer that was perfectly matched to the needs of those particular seeds.
After they did arrive, he planted them at the perfect depth in rows calculated to be exactly 90 degrees from the slope of the land, to maximize the capture of the predicted rain. Right on cue, the rains came, and the fields became fragrant with the smells of rich damp earth.
Six weeks after planting, he woke at dawn and brewed coffee, as was his custom. He took his cup out on the front porch of his house, and heard the screen door slam behind him. After taking a sip, he set the steaming cup down on the porch rail. Then, and only then, he let his gaze drift to his land.
And before him, for acres and acres, he saw…perfectly black soil, cultivated into neat furrows, without a speck of green to be seen from his house to the horizon.
You see, unbeknownst to him, the special seed that he had ordered had sat in a shipping container in bright sunlight on the dock for over a week. The temperature inside the container had risen so high that all of the seeds had been sterilized. But there had been no sign of this after the seed bags had arrived.
So we find our farmer gazing over his stark black fields, and slowly rotating the cup on the porch rail. And he says this to himself: "What a good farmer I am! This is truly my masterpiece!"
I love to tell this story. Almost everyone thinks that the farmer is being sarcastic, or that it is some kind of incomprehensible Zen thing. He's not, and it's not. The nearly universal surprise at the farmer's attitude is my whole point.
The farmer knows what we all should know: that his judgment of himself should be based on his efforts, not on the outcome. It is his effort (over which he has at least modest control) that is critical. He performed masterpiece-quality farming all winter and spring, and could see this from his front porch. The fact that the seeds chose not to sprout is immaterial to him, as it should be. Yes, he may be taking out a loan for the next planting season rather than using the profits from a bumper crop, but this affects his pocketbook, not his self-esteem.
This standard of self-regard is difficult to implement, but I strongly recommend striving to do so. Without a careful mental separation of effort and outcome, you are bound to become a prisoner of your own mind. Your mood state will fluctuate with the capricious blessings of Lady Luck. Over time, you grow to believe that you are powerless to control your destiny.
I recall a good day. I had just lost a racquetball game by a wide margin, but I walked off the court thinking, "I played really well today; he just played better." And I recall other games that I have won, where my exiting thoughts were, "Nice to win, and my serve really needs work." Those are days when I am the master of my mood.
a short essay by Dr. Whitehead
